


Gods That We Knew

by jesterkoops



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And I mean VERY, Both for them and for me at writing them, Canon - TV, Canon Continuation, Character Death, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, JBWeek2018, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season 8, Very light smut, what am i getting myself into?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesterkoops/pseuds/jesterkoops
Summary: Seven snippets in time during the second War for the Dawn.





	1. The Maiden

**_You know my call, and we’ll share my all_ **

 

It’s nothing like Brienne had expected.

It’s warm.

She had slowly grown used to the persistent chill in the air, which had only gotten worse once the Wall had come down and, with it, the eerie mist had descended on the North. With all the layers of leather and steel and fur she now owns and constantly wears to keep the cold at bay, she never expected the first time she feels truly warm again to be when she’s wearing nothing at all.

It’s soft.

Where she expected roughness, everything is soft. The furs. The pillows. The skin. The touches. The words.

It’s slow.

Though it didn’t start that way, at first. The desperation following another near miss - way too close this time - the frustration at the recklessness - his and hers both - and all the things left unsaid for too long had seen to that.

It’s safe.

When nothing is ever safe anymore, fighting literal death every day. Even before the dead had come bearing down upon the world of the living, Brienne hadn’t felt safe; not since taking up her sword and leaving Tarth to be a woman in a man’s world. She can count the number of times she has felt safe since on one hand, and he’s in all of them. Sitting in a parley with the enemy, waltzing into an enemy camp into an attempt at negotiation, staring down an angry bear over his shoulders.

_Ser Jaime will be there._

Her knight in tarnished armour.

He would swell with arrogant pride if he knew her thoughts, she’s sure. She can picture that irritatingly smug expression she knows so well, the one he wears every time he manages to disarm her with words where he can’t with swords.

She finds herself snorting at the thought and Jaime raises his head from her neck, where he’s been trailing soft kisses against the scars there, and looks at her curiously. “Something amusing you?” the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. She shakes her head, wordlessly, and watches as his eyes turn devilishly. “Or is my Lady ticklish?”

Her eyes widen in mild panic as she only now realizes the fingers of his lone hand have ghosted down to her waist and around to her lower ribs. She involuntarily tenses her muscles to withstand the assault, but it’s useless, her throat constricting as she desperately tries, and fails, to hold in an undignified burst of giggles. She didn’t even _know_ she was ticklish until now.

He’s heavy, as she twists and jerks and bucks underneath him, arms flailing as she tries to grab hold of his mischievous fingers and oh, it’s so joyous. Of all the things she didn’t expect, this is the one that surprises her the most. Where she had expected somber and sullen, it’s so, so light.

When she realizes she can breathe again, she registers he’s stopped tickling her, his palm now resting warm on her hip, and she opens her eyes.

He’s looking down at her in a queer way, eyes big and wet and shining in the firelight. She tilts her head in a silent question, and, in answer, his hand suddenly cups her cheek, lips crushing hers and stealing her breath all over again. Brienne gives in, the play of lips and tongues becoming surprisingly quickly familiar already - Jaime will later joke that they are as good at this as they are in battle - until he breaks apart with a half-sigh, half-chuckle, softly runs his nose along hers, eyes still closed, and speaks around a lump in his throat. “I never knew it could be like this..”

She can’t help but gape at him in wonder, speechless, as he voices what has been in her head all along. Speechless, as she finds the hundredth thing they have in common, when at first it seemed like they had none.

She wishes she could tell him she feels the same, that he’s not alone, that it seems like they haven’t been alone in a long time. But while the Gods have equipped her with natural skills with a sword and a horse and her body - in every way, she’s shocked to discover tonight - they have not blessed her with the skill to express her mind. So she just frames his bearded face between her hands, making him look her in the eye, trying to convey it all with her gaze. That, she’s had a lot of practice at with him. And he’s always been better with words than her, anyway.

After that, it’s overwhelming. Everything is new, and Brienne’s overcome by sensations she has no reference for.

She thinks she should be ashamed when Jaime kisses his way down her body to settle between her thighs; that she should be mortified by the sounds he coaxes out of her as he licks and nips and sucks. But her body has a mind of its own, and it sings as she fists one hand in his hair while the other blindly reaches for his stump that’s resting by her side.

She thinks she should be scared and tense and guarded when he works his way back up, looking as dazed as she feels, and she feels him press against her, knowing full well what’s coming next. But she’s unafraid and pliable and trusting, as he takes her sigh inside his mouth just as she takes him into her body for the first time. Jaime smiles the softest smile down at her, his forehead coming to rest on her own, and if Brienne thought she had discovered what it was to be loved a few moments before, she now knows herself to be a fool, for nothing compares to this.

Their world shifts on its axis. The sisterfucker dead, the Maiden gone.

He starts to move, she soon follows, and Brienne is not sure what he means when after a while he chuckles with a pained groan into her shoulder that he’s sorry this won’t last long, or how can there be more than what he’s given her already. Jaime suddenly trembles in her arms and is almost rough as he scrambles to turn her face to his, looking like he’s mustering all his strength to keep his eyes open, his thumb rhythmically brushing her cheek in time with the pulsing of their bodies.

He falls into her arms, all dead weight and long limbs, sneaking his shortened arm underneath her back and running his hand down from her face to twine his fingers with hers. She runs her free hand through his hair and turns her lips to his temple, feeling the pulse there slow with every heartbeat.

It’s quiet and comforting.

As he’s about to doze off, Brienne runs her hand down his side, feather touches across his ribs. Jaime suddenly jerks alert and off of her, instinctively scooting away from her teasing hands. She smirks his own smug grin back at him. “Is my Lord ticklish?”

She makes to reach out again, this time with both hands, and he looks so uncharacteristically ruffled and confused, as he scoots further and further back with every motion of her hands, that she can’t help but laugh out loud. She catches him just as he’s about to topple over the edge of the bed.

Jaime shakes his head, as Brienne helps him slide back towards towards the middle of the mattress. “Is this what it’s about? You have me one time and you’re already done with me and trying to kill me?” He sighs, overly dramatically.

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up!” She releases one his writs to shove against his chest, but he is faster, this time, and in a blink takes hold of her arm, twists her, and flips her over onto her side. She feels him mold his body against her back, his legs tangling with hers under the furs, his left arm around her waist to hold her. “Told you I was strong enough” he whispers in her ear, and she swats playfully at his arm, resting her hand on his forearm. She feels her eyelids get heavy, her breathing slows.

Jaime’s doesn’t.

“I love you.”

He must feel her heart skip a beat, where his hand rests against her breast, for he tenses almost imperceptibly, and moves to put some distance between them. But she quickly tightens her hold on his arm and scoots back even more firmly against him, startling a grunt out of him from the force. She’s not graceful, even now. She knows not how to be, nor how to be tender or amiable or soft spoken. But she knows what it is to be insecure, so she figures she might as well start learning now, as she finds her trembling voice.

“I love you.”

It’s warm, and soft, and slow, and safe, and light and overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time ever writing J/B, and I went straight for the sex (which I've never written before either! *blushes*). I blame the folks over at JBO for serving me the Maiden excuse on a silver platter from the get go. Literally kicking off with a bang (that was promised). 
> 
> I'm aiming to post one chapter a day during J/B week. This is my first time posting on AO3 too, so I hope I'm not going to make a mess with formatting, uploading and what have you. Let me know if I do. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Ginmo for kicking off my inspiration to write this series and for giving her blessing to the chapters before I post them, so that I don't embarrass myself too much. Thank you! 
> 
> This is for all the awesome peeps at JBO. Looking forward to reading everyone's awesome work this week!


	2. The Smith

**_I will hold as long as you like, just promise me we’ll be alright_ **

 

The hall is loud and merry, for a change.

After much battle, death, destruction, and retreat, the army of the living has managed to finally withstand the assault on their strongholds in the Riverlands, and block the advance of the undead. The armies feel safe and victorious for the first time in a long time; or as safe as one could feel with the Night King and his ice dragon flying around. But the majority of his foot soldiers are kept at bay, at least for the time being.

Not that victory came without costs. No victory does, Jaime thinks. But the smell of the burning piles of bodies at the end of battles - the ones they can salvage from becoming new recruits for the army of the dead - still haunts him,  and it’s something he can’t seem to get used to. If once he would have been glad to see that ginger wildling skewered onto an icy spear, their initial friction had morphed into playful jesting over the last several moons, and the reality of his demise had been much more brutal and devastating.

 Jaime gingerly shifts his weight onto the bench, wincing as the stitches holding together the deep cut down his left flank stretch and pull at his skin, burning. He too came close to being part of the body count. _Again_. Dropping the spoon into his congealing stew, he awkwardly attempts to adjust his many layers of clothing to stop them from catching onto the bandages wrapped around his torso. He feels hot and his head is pounding.

“You should have stayed in bed.” Brienne scowls at him from across the table. He is adept by now at reading the concern behind her irritation, so he just smirks and shrugs. “I was hungry.”

A scoff. “You know I could have brought you food.”

“Mmm… “ Jaime scratches his beard, pretending to think. “You’re right,” he continues, his voice teasing “What fool would choose to have his meal in a hall filled with dirty, loud, smelly soldiers over the comfort of his own bed, and the company of his caring, tall, nake…”

Brienne kicks his shin under the table, her face red, before turning to her left to glare at her loyal squire, who tries his best to muffle his chuckles around a mouthful of stew. The jolt causes a new sting of pain to crawl its way up Jaime’s side, and he hisses and scrunches his eyes closed in discomfort. Brienne is up and across to his side of the table in the blink of an eye, startling him, Podrick, and the two Tully soldiers who are sharing her bench. He’s kind of thankful they are sitting on the far end of the table, or he fears she would have climbed right over it and _that_ would have attracted a lot more attention.

She crouches next to Jaime, eyes skitting across the floor in embarrassment, cheeks still red, and whispers a barely audible _I’m sorry_ as she reaches to help adjust his jerkin to relieve some of the pressure on the wound. If she notices the smirks of the soldiers at their table, she does not acknowledge it, and Jaime shifts in his seat to shield them from her view, leaning slightly to one side to give her better access to his wounded side. “Ah. It’s alright. I should know better than to tease you when I’m not at full strength.”

 A feverish chill runs through his body, and she stops pulling at his clothes to rest her palm against his forehead. Her touch is cool and soothing against his burning skin, and Jaime rests the full weight of his head against it, seeking more of it. This is not new. Even when they were still toeing the line between enemies and friends, when he spent weeks half-delirious from pain and infection, he had learned that, despite all appearances, Brienne had the gentlest touch he has ever known. Perhaps the only gentle touch he has ever known.

Yet so much is changing now, Jaime thinks, as she indulges in a barely-there, tremulous, but undeniably loving caress against his cheek.

Part of him is distinctively, helplessly aware of the fact that the Tully men are still watching and snickering, and he feels a pang of guilt. That he selfishly laps up every drop of affection Brienne is willing to indulge in outside the bedchamber, despite knowing how hard this is for her. That just as she had finally gained respect from all ranks of soldiers and lords for her prowess on the battlefield, a new breed of mocking grins and whispers started haunting her, for the world who seemed to now accept a warrior woman, discovered a newfound source of amusement in the softness of heart concealed behind the armour, towering frame and ever-present scowl. Brienne often can’t help the old habit of hiding inside that armour, even as she tests the waters of what she feels comfortable showing in public, and Jaime tries his best not to rush her, not to lest his own past haunt him, not to read secrecy in her fear. But whatever she’s willing to give, he cannot bring himself to discourage, whispers be damned. He’s too selfish for that.

He sighs contentedly, eyelids heavy, and asks her to take him to bed.

Brienne stands, only a brief, furtive glance at the men behind him, and she helps him stand upright when he sways slightly on his feet.  “Do you need me to carry you?” she jests, and he grins back at her. "I can still walk. Just give me your arm." He wraps his shortened arm around hers, leaning slightly against her to ease the pressure on his injured side. Clutching her, he lets her heard him across the hall to the drafty courtyard outside.

The icy cold air is a welcome sensation on Jaime’s heated body. Before they reach the doorway that leads up to their chamber, he stops walking, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the sky, and Brienne looks down at him, puzzled. “What are you doing? It’s freezing.” He opens one eye to look at her, the corner of his mouth turning up salaciously. “I can warm you up, if you like. I have enough body heat to melt steel right now; I can share.” There’s that warm blush on her cheeks again. But Jaime wants to be true to his offer and warm up more than just her cheeks. He reaches to wrap his good arm around her waist and pull her into an embrace, when the sound of crunching snow behind her causes them both to reflexively stiffen and pull away.

“Lady Brienne, I have been looking for you,” the Baratheon bastard greets her, emerging from the alcove of the forge, soot and grease glistening on his body and face like obsidian. “It’s nearly finished, but I needed you to look at something,” he tilts his head towards Jaime. “Since Ser Jaime is here, maybe he can try it on.”

“Me? What is it?” Jaime looks between the two with curiosity. “A dragonglass hand to replace this useless golden one?” He waves his fake hand in the air.

“Not quite. Come.” says Brienne.

They follow Gendry inside his workshop. The sudden change in temperature makes Jaime’s head spin for a moment, and he grabs hold of one of the stone work benches to steady himself, as the smith keeps talking to Brienne.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he moves around the forge, clearing some space on a worktop, before disappearing into a dark corner and shouting over his shoulder.  “With all the running we have done in the last few months, getting a forge working again hasn’t been easy and, you know… weapons come first.”

He reemerges in the soft light carrying a large, heavy bundle wrapped in cloth and waddles over to the worktop with difficulty, dropping it onto the hard surface, the space around them reverberating with the clang of metal on stone. The shape is unmistakable, and Jaime turns to glance at Brienne, his throat tight. She is standing stiffly beside him, trying to avoid direct eye contact, as the lad unwraps the cloth and unveils what’s underneath.  “Here.”

Jaime reaches out, and runs his hand down the cool metal, swallowing hard. The steel is dark grey, almost black. The surface rough in places and smooth in others, and some angles sharp where others are round. It’s simple, it’s not adornate, there are no sigils, and it’s the most beautiful armour Jaime has ever seen.

Brienne takes a step closer and clears her throat, reaching down to pick at one of the fastenings with a dirty fingernail. “I know it’s not much, but… you cannot keep going into battle without an armour. We are always on the frontlines and...” She trails off, looking up at him, her astonishing eyes dark as the Long Night in the dim light, and he knows all that’s left unsaid. _My protector._

Jaime swallows again, blinking away the blur in his vision, and tries to instill as much meaning as he can in the simplest statement. “Thank you.” She nods curtly, her eyelashes fluttering rapidly.  

Gendry picks up the breastplate and holds it in front of his chest for him to try. “I’d like to see how the faulds fit with the cuirass.” Brienne helps Jaime into it, ensuring not to upset his fresh wound too much. One corner of her mouth turns up slightly as she works at the straps, and she looks down, almost bashfully.  

“I hope I got your measurements right.”

A whole-hearted chuckle rumbles out of Jaime’s chest, and the urge to kiss her overpowers him. For a moment, old instincts try to smother it, the presence of the lad in the room looming over him, but it passes quickly. And so he does. It’s brief, but right, for Brienne’s lips are still curled into a demure smile, both during and after, and if there’s any judgement on the smith’s face, as he slides the pauldrons over his shoulders, it is certainly not disapproval.

Under the weight of his new armour, Jaime feels lighter than he has in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who took the time to comment and leave kudos on chapter 1! It's always daunting to dip your toes in a new fanfic world, so I'm glad people enjoyed it. 
> 
> It's one of my headcanons/wishlist items for S8 that Brienne will commission a new armour for Jaime, so I couldn't resist temptation for the day of the Smith. Thanks again to Ginmo for reading this over and special thanks for this chapter to Aerest and Renee for helping me out with trying to write about armour without sounding too much like a noob.


	3. The Crone

**_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_ **

 

The feel of the wheatstone gliding along Valyrian steel, with its familiar strident sound, usually helps calm Brienne’s nerves and sharpen her focus just as if it were the edge of her sword. Tonight, however, the ritual is a broken spell, unease trembling deep in her bones.

They have set up camp amongst abandoned ruins, about a day’s ride from King’s Landing, and despite the large number of men and women, soldiers and knights, squires and lords around her, bustling like ants coating the leftovers of a big feast, Brienne feels that long forgotten sensation of isolation starting to crawl under her skin.

Though Jaime isn’t far, busy helping to organize guard rotations and defense perimeters to fend off attacks during the night - or what passes for night these days, anyway. Brienne swaps the wheatstone for the polishing cloth and watches him furtively, over the surface of the blade. He has grown almost more comfortable around the Northerners than she has ever seen him around his own men. He glows with even more confidence than when she first met him, and it charms her in a singular way, for his confidence is now genuine, honorable, not the arrogant facade of his Kingslayer days. They call him the Goldenhand now.

And he is hers. Has been for over a year.

That thought has gradually taken roots in her heart, mending it together. With every look into her eyes. Every brush of his shoulder against hers in battle, every battle, always there. Every jest that tugs a bashful smile out of her normally sullen mouth. Every night wrapped around one another, be it in lust or in sleep. Filling the cracks and making it stronger; alongside Jaime’s confidence, hers had grown too, for the first time.  

But dread has been growing steadily within her in the past week, the closer they get to King’s Landing.

Brienne knows all about longing from afar, knows what it is like to face failure, but she never knew what it was like to have and so knows not how to handle the possibility of loss. She knows enough about fighting to have learned where to lock away that fear whenever they step out into battle, twin swords singing in their hands, but this is no new move to add to her skills as a swordswoman. It’s something she is utterly unequipped to deal with, for the monster they’re about to face is of an entire different nature, and one that terrifies her more than an entire army of white walkers and ice dragons.

“Cersei.”

She is startled from her thoughts by Bran’s voice, who’s sitting close to her by the fire. She had all but forgotten about him sitting there, and a shiver runs along her back. She’s sure it’s more due to the feeling of uneasiness she tends to feel around the youngest Stark sibling, than the cold, but she tries to mask it as best as she can by reaching up to tighten her fur cloak about her shoulders.

Bran just looks at her with his customary dull gaze. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Lady Brienne.”

_Damn._

That is just what unnerves Brienne about Bran Stark. She has spent most of her life hiding away behind walls so thick no man could break though, and while she had felt powerless and afraid when Jaime had begun to slowly and infuriatingly chip at them and tear them down, it was an entirely different kind of powerlessness than what she felt at being in the presence of an all-seeing being.

_The Three-Eyed Raven._

Brienne rests the wheatstone and cloth on the log beside her, and nervously wipes her clammy right hand down her thigh. She wants to reassure him, but she knows he would know she’s lying. So she just nods apologetically in his direction.

“She is expecting us.” Bran continues, his monotone voice puffing clouds into the air the only sign that there is still something resembling human warmth inside his body. “She rarely leaves the throne room these days.”

Brienne closes her eyes tight and tightens her grip around Oathkeeper’s hilt, trying to reign in the twitching in her legs that compels her to get out of there as quickly as she can. She does _not_ want to talk about _this_.

Yet another part of her keeps her frozen onto that rotting log. Curious. Terrified. Needing answers.

“She will see us soon enough.” She tries her best to sound firm and confident, even though she knows there is no point. Bran will know what she means.

_She will see Jaime soon enough._

“The Wall stood for eight thousand years. And it only took one night to make it crumble” Brienne snaps her eyes from her boots to his face, squinting in confusion at the statement, but Bran just keeps looking at the flames. “It won’t be rebuilt again.” The weirdest sensation overtakes her, as if some deep level of her consciousness had managed to latch onto his words and comprehend them, while the rest of her remains lost and confused.

“She’s still the Queen.” Brienne’s voice is openly weak and unconvinced now, speaking in riddles similar to Bran’s, meaning hidden in depths. Her old self trying to win an argument she’s been losing for a year.  Bran knows who wins and who loses. She wants him to tell her, but she does not want to know.

“Yes.” Then he trains his eyes onto hers and that odd, vacant look takes over his features. Brienne feels her breath catch in her lungs, stinging from the cold, the blood in her veins icing over. “Queen she shall be. For a time,” she can’t take her eyes off of him, his speech hypnotic. “Then comes another. Younger. More beautiful. To cast her down and take all that she holds dear.”

It takes what seems like an eternity for Brienne to notice that he has fallen silent and she’s still staring into his eyes. With a shudder, hands shaking, she releases a breath she did not know she was holding, trying not to gasp in air as if she had just been pulled out of sea in her full body armour. She stands up in one stiff motion, not even bothering to slide Oathkeeper into its scabbard. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Bran.”

Head down, and eyes fixed on the ground, she stomps through the camp, avoiding people as they pass her. Her heart feels like it’s about to burst out of her ribcage. She needs to think and she _can’t_ think and her mind is a whirlwind, splitting at the seams.

She _knows_ Jaime has seen her and is following her, even without looking. She hates that she knows it, she hates that she can’t hide, she hates that he pays attention, she hates that she knows he pays attention, she hates that she can’t ignore it. He reaches her just as she’s about to disappear inside her tent; their tent.

“Brienne. Is everything alright?”

She spins around to face him, the motion so sudden it almost makes her dizzy, and she tries to put on her most convincing face as she nods. But she can see in his _goddamn_ expressive eyes that he’s not convinced at all, and it irritates her beyond measure.

“Are you sure?” he reaches his gloved hand out to grasp hers but she takes an abrupt step back, and the shocked hurt on his face is like a dagger in her belly. Her chest aches like she’s just been punched onto her sternum with a gauntlet.

She busies herself with sliding Oathkeeper back into its scabbard, her fingers tingling in the queerest way, and avoids looking at his face, not wanting the responsibility of what she can read on it. “Don’t you have plans to make for the patrols?” she waves in the general direction of the officers he was talking to.

Jaime spares a glance over his shoulder at the men, before turning back to her with a shrug. “Yes, but we are almost finished, and you have barely spoken a word to me since this morning.”

“I am not a weak woman who needs tending to.” she snaps at him, breathless.

Jaime recoils in confusion, frowning, and sounds mildly angry when he speaks. “I know _that_ . Seven hells, _you_ know I know _that_.” He sighs and changes tone, forcing himself to talk in the calmest tone he can muster, as if he were approaching a skittish mare. “You’ve been acting odd for days now, where is this coming from?”

As she stares at him in silence, something that looks dangerously like understanding suddenly dawns on his face and Brienne shakes her head vigorously at him. No, gods be damned, she will not allow him to voice what’s on her mind. She will not. There’s no roof over their heads, and there are miles of forest all around them, and yet she feels like walls are closing in around her. Black spots start appearing in her vision, marring Jaime’s beautiful face. She tries, desperately, to keep it together. “I said I’m fine, just go back to what you were doing.” She says, curtly.

“Brienne…”

“I said go!” She growls through gritted teeth, turning around and crossing into the tent with one long stride, the flap fluttering shut behind her.

She can’t breathe. Good Gods, she can’t breathe, and her stomach is turning.

_I should have never let this happen. Gods, why did you make me weak?_

In the haze, she can barely make out the sound of sudden commotion outside, someone talking to Jaime, the noise getting farther, Jaime walking away with it into the night, Jaime leaving, her heart hurting like it hasn’t in years.

She clutches at her belly and starts pacing the small space inside the tent. Back and forth, back and forth. She knows not how long for, time having lost all meaning. Desperately trying to gasp air into her lungs, but there just doesn’t seem to be enough of it. When she starts feeling faint, she shakily flings the flap of the tent back open to breath in some fresh air, her eyes frantically scanning the camp.

_I’m sorry._   _Jaime. Come back for me, Jaime._

But there, in her line of sight, is just Bran Stark, still sitting where she left him, standing out like a weirwood tree in a forest of firs, and looking straight at her.

Flames suddenly burst in the sky behind him, red and blue, and before she knows it, Brienne is running. Running towards the woods, towards the fire. One last, bone-chilling sentence, uttered by the Three Eyed Raven as she runs past him, haunting her all the way.

“Nothing is more hateful than failing to protect the one you love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I couldn't keep up the fluff for *too* long. There's no such thing as a good fanfic without a good measure of angst, right? Thank you all again for all the comments, I'll reply to each when I have a moment. Til tomorrow!


	4. The Stranger

**_Hold me still, bury my heart on the cold_ **

 

If he were honest with himself, he’s known all along it was only a matter of time.

He has seen many, so many fall in battle in the past year. Beside him, behind him, in front of him. Some deaths quick and painless, others long and excruciating. The latter, he often tried to end himself, if he could. If he failed at being their protector, he would at least be their mercy.

If he were honest, there's never been any real hope to see dawn again. Not for the likes of him.

He has tried to push that thought to the back of his mind, over and over. Every battle he miraculously managed to end on his feet, battered but alive, feeding what he now recognizes to be nothing more than the delusional optimism; that the Gods had, for some reason he could not comprehend, decided to spare him.

All in all, this is the best way he could aspire to go. Honorable and brave. Who would have thought, just a year ago, that he would die a hero’s death. The thought makes him smile, his teeth glistening red from the blood that keeps filling his mouth, the taste of copper overwhelming by now. He coughs, his lungs not giving up yet, even as the rest of him seems to numb all over.

“Stay with me. We are nearly there.”

He nearly slips from the arms holding him, carrying him with effort through the knee-deep snow, but they tighten just in time, around his legs and under his buttocks, adjusting his body weight against the steel of the armoured back.

It’s getting so cold.

The fire is roaring behind them, huge, red and gold. Lighting up the forest as if it were that daylight they have been fighting for. And yet all he can feel is cold.

His teeth chatter, but he forces himself to speak. “It’s… It’s alright. P… Please. Leave me here.”

As soon as he speaks, they start moving faster instead, urgency in the steps. “Stop that. _Stop_ _it_.”

“I’m s.. slowing you.. down. They could be coming.” He tries to turn his head to look behind them, but he finds he doesn’t have the strength.

“They won’t. The dragons are taking care of it.”

“Please… I…” he chokes, not over blood this time, but over his own tears. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”

_She will blame herself. She will blame herself and it’s not her fault. She couldn’t have known._

His body is shifted once more, and he realizes he cannot feel his arms anymore. They’ve let go of the neck they were holding onto and are now dangling like ragdolls’ down the breastplate. “We need to get you to a Maester, or she won’t get to see you at all. Ever again.”

His head slumps to one side, vacant eyes just staring at the white ground moving underneath them; their shadow, cast by the fire behind them, huge. Like a giant’s. The sounds of the forest are starting to become muffled, as if he were slowly being wrapped in layer after layer of wool and cotton.

“ _Jaime_!”

Except one. Her voice pierces through the fog around his head, somewhere ahead.

“ _Jaime!”_

She’s coming.

“ _Jaime!”_

Closer still.

She’s calling his name. His name. His name alone. Frantic and desperate like she has never heard her sound.

It’s the oddest sensation, when he knows that the legs underneath him are picking up the pace and yet the ground seems to move even slower in front of his eyes. He starts feeling lighter and lighter, his body bearing down less and less onto the human arms holding him up, and falling into the Stranger’s instead.

“ _Jaimeee_!”

Still screaming his name. Only his name.  Only his.

He can let go now. She’ll be fine.

He got to see her happy, at least.

“Shut up!” The booming voice underneath him shakes him to the verge of alertness. He didn’t realize he was talking out loud. The alertness only lasts for a moment, though, and he feels himself slip away again.

One last thing, he thinks.  

_Nothing is more hateful than failing to protect the one you love_.

He gathers all of the little strength he has left to wrestle his first and last oath out of his carrier. “Promise… Promise you won...’t die.. on her too.”

“Shut the fuck up, Podrick.” Ser Jaime pants, his voice strangled. “Just.. shut up.”

They hit a patch of snowfall that is deeper than the rest, and Pod’s body careens off to one side, all dead weight, Ser Jaime’s fake hand useless in trying to stop his fall. He can only help make it gentler, helping him slide down his side instead of dropping in free fall, but Pod cannot feel the difference any longer anyway. He knows he's being rested against a tree, but he can't feel his back anymore. 

He wants nothing more than to let go. But he cannot go before Ser Jaime has sworn the oath. He cannot understand why Ser Jaime would be so cruel. Can’t he see he wants to go but cannot until he’s promised?

“Promis... me.” He tries, one more time. “Please.”

Relief finally comes, in the form of Ser Jaime’s silent nod. His bearded chin nearly touches his breastplate as he does, and Pod finds it queer that it never lifts again from that position. Ser Jaime is staring at him, his expression unchanged. He doesn’t even blink. His mouth a thin, unmoving line; a puff of frozen air hanging in front of it as if held by a string. His hair swept aside from his forehead by the wind, yet held perfectly still in place as if he were carved out of stone. Everything around his face, and behind him, and in the periphery of Pod’s vision, seems to be frozen still too. The tree branches. The ash falling from the sky. And, into the distance, the towering form of his Lady Ser, one leg extended in front of the other, one arm behind her and one in front, her sword in her hand. She’s reminds him of the pictures of knights in storybooks.

It lasts for some time, this stillness, he’s unsure how long.

Then, all is darkness.

He doesn’t see Ser Jaime brush his only hand over his face to slide his eyes closed.

He doesn’t see Ser Jaime look up at his Lady Ser, when she finally reaches them, blue eyes wide and trembling, and whisper _I’m sorry_ in a choked voice.

He doesn’t see her crash down to her knees; nor does he feel her reach out with both of her hands to shake his shoulders, calling his name.

He has never seen her cry before, and he won’t now either. Quiet tears sliding down her cheeks and frosting on her face, as she wipes the blood from his face with her gloved hand; the only time she’s touched him with tenderness.

He doesn’t see Ser Jaime wrap his hand around the back of her neck, holding her face in the crook of his neck, still smattered with his blood, as she grieves for him.

He doesn’t see her pick up his limp body in her arms, walking all the way back to camp, where she insists on burning him herself, on his own, not just another body thrown into a pile of corpses.

He doesn’t see her standing vigil at his pyre until the very last embers die with him.

He won't see any of that; not life end, nor life begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SOBS* Poor, sweet Podrick. 
> 
> I think those who have read even one my rants over how I hate the narrative of Jaime being a certain death and how I think it makes very little, if any, sense (especially for Brienne's arc), probably knew I wasn't going to kill him off. But I hope it worked for you nonetheless. 
> 
> I liked the idea of playing around with the POV of death for the Day of the Stranger and, sadly, I have a feeling Pod will be a goner in S8 (and I fear much earlier than what I envisioned here), so I thought he would be a fitting perspective to use.
> 
> Halfway through!


	5. The Father

******_The ghosts that we knew will flicker from view_ **

 

The roof of the throne room is torn open, like a giant mouth trying to swallow the grey sky above. A thin layer of snow and ash covers the floor, the braziers extinguished. The first, weak rays of dawn begin to break through the clouds overhead and the few shattered windows that are still standing.

To Jaime, amidst the devastation, his little brother looks even smaller, as he waddles with difficulty in front of him, over and around stone rubble and collapsed wooden beams. Before them, the iron throne still looms; defiant and dark, it stands out even more against the white dusting covering the floor.

The silent emptiness of the place reminds him of those ancient ruins, standing to remind man of a power long, long past. Generations, even centuries ago, rather than something wars were fought over only a year prior. Or mayhaps that is just how long it feels to Jaime. He has seen many wars in his relatively short life, but this one has stretched time and spirits in a way no other has. It feels it was a lifetime ago since he was standing next to that throne, holding onto the last dying embers of his family. Even longer since his children had sat on it. Joffrey, too cruel and too spiteful; Tommen, too soft and too young.

A pebble, or some other piece of rubble, rattles to their left, echoing for several moments in the desolate chamber, and there she is, coming out of the darkness like a ghost. She’s covered in dust and ash, her dress torn at the neck, the sleeve, the knee. A trail of blood dripping down her leg to her foot. She slowly makes her way towards them, trembling slightly with each step, thinner than Jaime remembered her being. When she is close enough that they can see her face in the dim light, he sees that her eyes are flickering frantically around the floor.

Jaime can’t help the pang that pricks at his heart, as Tyrion glances up at him from the corner of his eye with a questioning look, before calling out.

“Cersei.”

There’s a sudden gleam in her eyes, and she starts moving faster, closer, more decisively, and for a moment Jaime thinks she’s about to throw her arms around him, seeking comfort. But she walks straight past them both and crouches on the floor, shaking something out of some rubble.

Her crown.

It’s bent, chipped, its usual polished shine gone, and half of the intricate lion at the top is missing, but Cersei straightens her back proudly and sets it back on her head. Gone is the shell-shocked woman from just a moment ago. Cersei Lannister, First of her Name, is still here.

When he and Tyrion walked inside the Red Keep, Jaime had had half expected to find her dead under the rubble, or to find nothing but her ashes, remains of dragonfire. His relief is only compounded by a deep sense of unease; whether for what he has found in its stead or for the disquieting sensation that he would have found the alternative less unsettling than this, he knows not.

“Have you finally decided to crawl back to where you belong?” she finally speaks, settling back onto her throne.

Jaime grits his teeth. “We are glad to see you’re alive too, sister.” He holds out his good hand, motioning for her to step off the throne. “Now, will you come with us, please?”

“Where?” She seems genuinely puzzled, seemingly unconcerned with her injuries or the fact that the entire building is collapsing around her.

Jaime drops his hand and looks down at Tyrion, who raises an eyebrow in turn. “To a safer place.” his brother tries to explain, calmly, as if he were speaking to a small child. “The undead are still swarming the city and the rest of this roof will likely not hold for that long.” He sneaks a worried glance to the half-collapsed ceiling above them.

Cersei snorts derisively. “Do you take me for a fool? Where is your Targaryen bitch? Waiting out in the hall for you to escort me to _safety_ ?” She sneers. “You are all such turn cloaks, all of you. Starks, Targaryen… you’re all the same. Betraying each other’s families. Murdering each other’s families. And now... best of friends. Trusting allies. Conspiring together to take me out so she can sit on _my_ throne.” She turns to Jaime. “And you. You have sunk so low, becoming her little envoy. You’re more of a servant now than you were when you wore the white cloak.”

Jaime stares at her, blankly. He does not know if it is habituation or exhaustion, but he cannot feel anything but apathy at her ridicule. Tyrion speaks, his voice sounding as resigned as Jaime feels.  “It’s over, Cersei.”

“I know.” Cersei smirks, leaning back into her seat. “I saw her dragons fall from the sky like dead birds. She is nothing without her dragons. Your trickery is the only weapon she has left. But it won’t work with me. She will not cast me down.”

“Oh, fuck your prophecy!” Jaime shouts, the spiel he has heard so many times, a reminder of all the terrible things he was once willing to do to to protect her, enraging him. “Nobody is coming to cast you down because there is nothing to cast you down from.” He waves his arm, gesturing to the destruction around them. “Look around. It’s over. You are queen of nothing. You can sit in this ruin for the rest of your life, or until it crumbles on your head, whichever comes sooner. Nobody will care.”

Something changes in Cersei’s eyes at that. They seem to soften all of a sudden, a glimpse of light appearing in the emerald irises. She speaks, then, almost gently. “We can start anew.”

Tyrion glances up at Jaime from the corner of his eye, bewildered, as Cersei clenches her fists in her lap and looks up briefly at the sky, as if thanking the Gods. “I was right all along. I was right to let our enemies destroy one another. Nothing stands in our way now.”

She stands and walks closer, stopping on the steps just above them, looking from one brother to another and back again, caught up in a fervor Jaime doesn’t think he’s ever seen on her. “Don’t you see? You can stop serving and finally be my King. And you… you can be our Hand.” She says earnestly to Jaime and then to Tyrion, the abrupt change in her mood and her demeanor towards them more disconcerting than ever. “We will rise from the ashes and start again; rebuild Westeros in our image. This is it. Our chance for a legacy. Our children, and their children, and their children afterwards. They will hear us roar for a thousand years and more.”

Jaime closes his eyes, pained. Oh, how he once would have killed every man, woman and child that stood in their way, only to have an ounce of what she is proposing. A shiver runs his spine at the thought, a sick feeling rising within his stomach, as he is once again confronted with the measure of his late obsession and the shame that accompanies it. He looks up at her, standing there with her dirty, torn dress, her broken crown, and tries to find a glimpse of the golden girl he loved his whole life. It finally, finally hits him that she isn’t lost; she was never there in the first place. His chains had been bound to thin air all along.

Faced with her brothers’ protracted silence, Cersei’s face clouds over once again, just as quickly as it had cleared.

“You are cowards with no ambition. Both of you.” she seethes through gritted teeth. She looks at Tyrion. “You… You, I had always known. Father had the right to be ashamed of you. And you...” she turns to Jaime. “Maybe you do prefer to be just a servant; a glorified bodyguard, not holding responsibility or having to think for yourself. But you were never such a spineless craven. You would have killed half of Westeros, to protect your family. For _me_.”

As she echoes his thoughts, Jaime feels, for the first time in a long while, the phantom fingers of his missing hand twitching. “I _would_ have done all those things.” he says. “For _love_. Maybe I still would, if I had to. But I don’t. I am not asked to kill and maim and betray anymore. I don’t want to. I don’t need to. Not for love. Not for my family. Not for my child.”

“There is NO child!” Cersei yells, her voice booming against the broken walls, cracking just the tiniest speck at the mention, but not enough to move Jaime to pity any longer. “There is no child, you idiot. I lost that child while you were up North, betraying me and playing good little honorable commander to the rest of those fools!”

“I know!” Jaime roars. “I said _my_ child.” He pauses, shaking with blood rush.  “Mine. Not yours.”

It takes a moment, or two, but Cersei’s face slowly grows as white as the snow around her, and her eyes as wide as the crack in the ceiling above. Tyrion grabs hold of Jaime’s good hand, trying to get him to look down at him as he lets out a stunned, breathless " _what?"._ Jaime squeezes his brother’s hand briefly in acknowledgment, but doesn’t take his eyes off his sister, who is as silent as he’s ever seen her. She's not moving a muscle, but has begun to tremble again, gripping the sharp metal around her until it starts drawing blood from her palms.

“And it won’t sit on that throne. _Ever_.”

You’ll have none of that, Jaime thinks. Just as she was offering all he ever wanted, they're taking away all she ever wanted. He feels like he is truly, fully his own man for the first time in his life, no longer another spoke in the Lannister wheel. His decisions are his; not his father’s, not his brother’s, and certainly not his sister’s. And that decision had been made all along, he now knows.

“It won’t be a Lannister. _I.._ ” he frees his hand from Tyrion’s grasp to point at his own chest “won’t be a Lannister much longer.” He takes a deep, liberating breath, voice low, and looks down at his little brother with finality.  “This is the end of the line.”

With one last look at his past’s pale face, Jaime turns and walks out of the throne room for the last time, white snow and ash fluttering like a cloak in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a monster chapter and I was still editing it right before I posted, because I was trying to get it just right. I'm still not 100% sure it's as close to how I wanted it, but I didn't want to delay any longer and I was afraid that if I kept tweaking it, I'd make a mess. And there are a lot of BTS notes that go with it.
> 
> 1) It was actually the ending of this scene that kind of kicked off my entire JB Week project. I already had something in mind about doing one stand-alone snippet for each God, but it wasn't until Ginmo introduced me to the idea of what is now colloquially known as the "New child, who dis?" scene between Jaime and Cersei that the whole thing really took the shape that it currently has. So, thank you for the inspiration, Ginmo! This fic would be much more of a mess without you.
> 
> 2) I really didn't want to make any definite statement about the state of the endgame. I have many theories on how it could all end, and I am not married to any of them, so if this feels very vague and ambiguous as to what is going on outside that throne room... good. Broad strokes is what I intended.
> 
> 3) I also do not feel strongly about whether or not the Lannister name will go extinct, or what Jaime decides to do with it if/when he survives. I think there are very good reasons for it to go either way in the end, but for the purpose of this particular story I felt like Jaime putting an end to the line, which is something Cersei has always craved for herself, would pack more of a narrative punch. 
> 
> Finally, sorry for the lack of J/B interaction in the last three chapters, but worry not. You'll get your fix tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you again so much to anyone who's taken the time to comment. I love reading all your comments and I'm so glad you're liking this. Once the madness of JB week is over, I promise I will get down to replying to you all.


	6. The Mother

******_And our children come, and they will hear me roar_ **

  
  


She stays by the pyre until the last embers die out, and it takes her a while to even realise that they have. 

For Brienne, the hardest battles have never been the ones fought with swords against men, or even now, against the dead. They have always been the ones fought within herself, against herself, and tonight was no different. First the battle against the ghosts of the past, hers and his, and now this. This horrible relief that she cannot help but feel, that she tries to fight back against and beat into submission, because she should be devastated that the ashes in front of her are all that is left of Podrick - her loyal Podrick - and yet all she can see is the hole she would have been left with had they been Jaime’s instead. Bigger than any she has ever known. 

She wonders for a moment if this feeling, this all-consuming need to have him and to keep him, above anyone and anything, is akin to what has driven Jaime his whole life. 

For _ her _ . 

Brienne rubs a hand over her face, shivering, noticing just how cold she is. The forest is black and cold now; silent, when just a few hours ago it was screaming with the agony of dying men, screeching dragons and roaring fire. She’s exhausted. So exhausted.

With a last glance to the cinders, she begins the walk back to camp. She has taken only a few steps, when she gets mildly startled as her eyes, still readapting to the darkness of night, glimpse a figure standing in the darkness, just ahead.

He doesn’t move, just waits, patiently, for her to come closer.

“How long have you been standing here?” Brienne asks, her voice thick. 

Jaime shrugs. “I don’t know?” He moves away from the tree he was leaning against and stretches his good arm out in front of him, flexing his fingers. “Enough to nearly lose the few fingers I have left to this goddamn cold.” He says with a shiver. 

She’s finally close enough to see his face, the worried frown between his brows, the sadness in his eyes, despite the casual tone in his voice. Once again, she’s assaulted by that overwhelming relief she’s been battling against, screaming in her head that he’s alive,  _ he’s alive _ , when he could have been the one dying out there, with her bitter, angry last words echoing in his ears.

_ I said go! _

Suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter if what he feels for her is not as profound or powerful or all-consuming as what she feels for him, or what he feels for  _ her _ . What matters is that whatever he is able to give her, he is giving it all, and whatever he is able to give her is something that she can no longer live without.

Brienne sucks in a breath, her resolve crumbling, her chin trembling in the attempt to keep the tears at bay. She covers the rest of the distance between them in two long, fast steps and gracelessly and roughly grabs the back of Jaime’s fur cloak to pull him against her, their armors clanking lightly against each other. She squeezes her powerful arms around his back, irritated at the steel preventing her from feeling his warmth, his breaths, under her hands. Alive. 

Even so, she can feel the tension leave Jaime’s body. He wraps his bad arm around her waist and runs his hand though the hair at the back of her head, gently leaning his head against hers. “There you are..” he whispers. It makes her want to weep even harder, the tenderness in his voice, how he finds her in places nobody else would ever know to look. His head shifts, and then his lips are against her temple, soft and warm. “Let us go back.”

The lanterns in their tent have all but died out at some point during the night, and Brienne gets to work to light them all again. Once they are all burning bright, filling the small space with an gold and orange glow, she notices Jaime’s face, as he sits on a stool fiddling with the straps on his shoulders, is still matted dark by ash and blood.

_ Podrick’s blood. _ Podrick’s blood. Not Jaime’s. There is that hated feeling of relief, again. 

She startles Jaime a little when she suddenly drops to her knees in front of him to help him out of his armour, and he looks slightly amused when she starts vigorously wiping his face and neck clean with a damp cloth. She really wants that blood off, and quickly.

He winces when she pulls at some of the hair in his beard in her attempt to remove the blood caked in it. “Ow. Easy. You’ll rip it off.” He snorts. Brienne mutters an apology, her touch growing less frantic and Jaime leans forward to place a chaste, quick kiss against her blushing cheekbone, before busying himself with the fastenings of her own armour. 

Their eyes meet in unspoken, sad understanding. She no longer has a squire to help her out of it, and the weight of his absence looms over Brienne all over again. Jaime manages to get her pauldrons off, but he visibly struggles with only one hand, and she begins assisting him.

“He was terrible at first.” Brienne reminisces, with a melancholic smile. “He couldn’t tie the knots properly and my breastplate would sometimes just slide off my chest while I was riding my horse. I got so frustrated I started sleeping in my armour, cursing you for saddling me with him.”

Jaime chuckles. “But he learned, eventually.”

“He did. He is…  _ was _ the best squire I could have hoped for.” She grows somber again. “I don’t think I ever told him that.”

“You told him, Brienne. Maybe not in so many words, but you always speak louder with actions. And he knew you well enough to understand that.” They slide her shoulder pads off and move onto her front, as Jaime continues. “He had plenty of your stern, motherly love.” 

Brienne freezes at that, her eyes snapping up to look at Jaime, who appears focused on the knots holding her cuirass together. She keeps her eyes on him as her fingers keep working the strap, but he doesn’t make eye contact until she feels the backplate and breastplate detach from each other and she needs to get up to remove them. She uses some of the water that’s left to wash the dirt off her face as best as she can, then, once they’re both stripped down to just their linen shifts, they climb under the soft furs piled over their bedroll.  

Brienne knows all about battle lust by now. About that blood rush, that primal need to prove to one another that they made it, that they’re still alive. When nothing else matters. She briefly wonders if it happened during one of those couplings. 

But this battle has left them with nothing but exhaustion, and they just lay down onto their sides, facing each other in silence. Jaime’s eyes flutter close with a tired sigh, his hand curling around her hip. Brienne slides hers inside his shift where it lays open at the collar and rests her palm against his chest, feeling the skin warm, the heart beating underneath. She watches it raise and fall with each breath he takes. Alive.

His breathing doesn’t slow as it usually does when he’s on the verge of sleep, though. He speaks, instead. “Sing me to sleep?” Brienne frowns at him in confusion at the request, for not once has she sung in front of him - or anyone, even herself, not since childhood - and he squeezes her side, eyes still closed. “C’mon, you must know a lullaby or two?”

Her hand jolts against his chest at that, and she is sure she feels his heartbeat quicken in return. “I don’t. I’m not.. ” she clears her throat, eyes fixed on his collarbone. “I’m not a good singer.”

Jaime’s hand leaves her hip, moves under her shift, around to her stomach, and Brienne’s entire body tenses like a bow. “Well, you’ll need to start at some point soon?” he asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

This can’t be.. He cannot..

She slowly raises her eyes to his face, sure that she must be imagining things, and finds him gazing at her with enough intensity to knock the air out of her lungs. Jaime’s eyes are large and vulnerable, growing softer and wetter with each stroke of his palm across her belly. Each caress firmer, more certain, as every moment of silence on her part is seemingly confirming what he already appears to know.

She reaches down to lay her hand over his, pressing it more firmly against the imperceptible swell of her belly, where there used to be only muscle, attempting to convey what she can’t bring herself to say out loud.

And then he’s trembling like a leaf in the wind, letting out a watery chuckle and pressing his lips firmly but reverently against hers, like she’s the statue of the Mother and he’s worshipping at her altar. She can taste tears for a moment, before she’s enveloped in his embrace. He squeezes her tight and she cards her hand through his hair, the other soothing his still trembling back, as she finds her voice. “How… how did you know?”

“I wasn’t sure.” he croaks. “I mean, I suspected. You haven’t bled in two moons, we haven’t always been careful, and moon tea has grown so scarce. But so has food, so..” he shrugs under her hands. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

Brienne is caught between the embarrassment that he would be so familiar with her body to be suspicious even before  _ she _ had become aware of the change, and the shock at his choice of words.

_ Hope _ .

She speaks, hesitantly. “Were we not.. irresponsible? We are in the middle of a war.  _ The _ war. We could..”

Jaime stops her with another kiss before she can complete her thought. “Maybe we are. We could die tomorrow. We could have died yesterday. And the day before. And the moon before that,” he rests his forehead against hers. “And that’s why I don’t regret a single night I laid with you. I am not going to wait for death to claim us only to regret never living in the first place.”

He moves back slightly to look her in the eye, a smirk growing on his lips. “The timing isn’t perfect, sure. But there is still something we can do right.” Brienne tilts her head questioningly, and he tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re a woman of honour and you have helped restore mine. It’s only right this babe is born with honour as well.”

She snaps her head back to look at his face more clearly, unsure if he means what she thinks he means. His smirk grows even wider. “I don’t think you have a lot of options other than to agree, I mean… I have already led you astray in so many ways.” He lifts his hand off her stomach to start counting on his fingers. “You gave me your maidenhead, first of all. You’ve shared my bed ever since, and everybody knows. And the things I’ve done to you in this bed, or that you’ve done to me..” he smacks his lips, as her face grows warm and his voice sultry. “Well, let’s say that if that Stark kid can truly see all things, your reputation is in grave danger, my Lady. If people were to know just how much you enjoy the Lord’s kiss, or how darn good you are at..”

She clamps a hand over his mouth, muffling him and blushing more furiously at hearing him voice those things than she ever did while engaging in them. “Alright, you can stop, now!”

He laughs through her fingers, then grows serious again when she releases his mouth. “I am not having any more bastards. My child will carry my name. Or yours, if we’d rather take that.”

Just when she thought he couldn’t shock her any more. She supposes he’s been doing it since they shared that tub in Harrenhall, so she might as well be used to it. But there seem to be no limits to his ability to do so. “You.. you’d take my name?” she gasps.

Jaime shrugs. “I don’t care what name I carry, so long as I’m yours. When have we ever abided by societal convention, you and I?” he grins. “I don’t want people to think I’m getting boring in my old age. And Ser Jaime of Tarth has a nice ring to it.”

Brienne can’t stop the tears from coming this time, the grief, relief, exhaustion, and happiness overwhelming her. He’s hers. He will always be hers. 

Jaime brushes her tears, even as they keep coming. “Or not? If you hate it so much we can be Lannisters. That’s fine with me.” She snorts, laughs even, through her tears, and wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face there and laying a kiss on his skin. “I don’t care. I don’t care, so long as I’m yours.” She echoes his words, sliding down in the bedroll so she can fit her head underneath his chin. 

She feels him smile against the crown of her head, his hand kneading the back of her neck, softly and slowly, making her drowsy. 

“If it’s a boy, mayhaps we can name him Podrick.” he murmurs, deep in thought. “Podrick Lannister. Podrick Tarth. They both sound like good names.” 

_ I don’t care, so long as he’s yours. _

She falls asleep, lulled by the sound of Jaime’s voice droning on about babe names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL OF THE FLUFF! 
> 
> ETA: In case it wasn't incredibly clear, yes, this chapter takes place before the events in The Father. 
> 
> I don't know if George is in any way planning a happy ending for these two, but I am maybe one of the few optimists who thinks there's a fairly good chance he is. If not, we'll always have fanfic. 
> 
> This chapter is the longest in the entire thing, but I didn't want to cut any of it and I thought that after putting up with three whole chapters with zero to minimal J/B interactions, the more the better. 
> 
> Totally rogue and totally unbeta-ed because I'm now running short on time to finish these things on the day that they're meant to go up, so I hope it's not too sloppy. We are pretty much there anyway. I think tomorrow will be just a short epilogue to wrap up an amazing JB Week.
> 
> Thank you once again for all your comments. You guys rock and I look forward to next week, when I have time to sort through all of them and reply.


	7. The Warrior

**_And we’ll live a long life_ **

  


The beast is growling, claws digging into the ground underneath. Ever so often it lashes outward in an attempt to draw blood. Its breath foul, its fur knotted and dirty, its back arched towards the sky in fury.

It is cornered, unable to escape, but nonetheless fierce in its efforts to resist what is by now certain death. She has to admit she admires its resilience, even as each of her slow step forward brings its head closer to the tip of her sword.

“Yield!” she yells, thrusting forward. She sways slightly, thrown off balance by the unfamiliar weight of the sword in her left hand, but quickly regains her footing, grips the hilt tighter, and lunges forward again. “I said yield, or I’ll have your head!”

“You shouldn’t grimace before you lunge.” comes the annoying comment from behind her.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder, trying not to lose sight of the enemy. “Do you mind? I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need you protecting me!” is the indignant, ungrateful response.

“Of course you do, you can’t even lift that thing!” She snaps. The beast lashes out with rage once again, swatting the tip of the wooden sword as it does, nearly succeeding in knocking it out of her hand.

“And you cannot fight left handed!” she is shoved aside by a shoulder slightly bigger than hers, the screeching sound of metal scraping on the stone floor making her shiver in discomfort. “Get behind me.”

“No!” she tries to shove back.

“What are you two _doing_ with _my_ sword?”

They both spin around so fast it makes her dizzy.

The cat scurries away to safety, down one end of the long hall and out through an open window, while their mother stomps her way down the other end, heading towards them.

She looks up at her sister in a silent plea for help, to come up with something, anything, to avoid a scolding. That’s what she is good at. _Unlike at sword fighting_. She thinks, smugly. She’s not as good as she is. No. She’s not.

Mother is by now towering over them, hands on her hips. “Well?”

Her sister grips the lion pommel around the hilt even tighter, and tilts her chin up.  “Isn’t it meant to be the family sword?”

Mother’s scowl turns into a confused frown. “Yes, so?”

“Doesn’t that mean it is ours too, then?” she answers, managing to sound smug and innocent at the same time.

Mother sighs, her shoulders losing their tension, indicating the storm has been avoided. She shakes her head and narrows her eyes, reaching down to take the weapon from her sister’s hands. “When you’re bigger and you can actually lift it, we will talk about it.”

Her sister looks longingly at the sword, its polished metal shining bright in the sunlit room, the red of the rubies reflecting off the walls around them. It is a beautiful sword. “But how can we have only one family sword when there are so many of us?” She asks.

Mother runs her thumb down the flat of the blade almost reverently, inspecting the metal. “There’s your father’s sword, too.”

Her sister turns to address her. “You can have that one.”

She scrunches up her face at the suggestion. “Why do I have to get that one?”

“Because I’m older, so I get the big sword.” her sister shrugs.

“I don’t want Father’s sword! It’s small and it doesn’t have lions on it. And you will _never_ be good enough for it. I am better than you with swords!” She takes her fighting stance and points her wooden sword up towards Mother’s chest. “Look, Mother. I can fight left-handed too.”

Mother smiles down at her, a hint of praise in her eyes. “Why are you fighting left handed?”

“Father says that you should learn to use a sword with both hands because you never know when you might lose one.” She answers, matter of factly and proud, but Mother looks mildly horrified at that answer.

“What if you lose both?” her sister quips.

The question stumps her for a moment, and she lowers the point of her sword back to the ground, frowning, deep in thought. “I don’t know.. I guess.. I’ll have _two_ golden hands made. With swords attached to both!”

“Alright, alright.” Mother waves her free hand between them, motioning for them to follow her down the corridor. “Nobody is losing any hands today. Or any time soon. Or _ever_ , Gods have mercy.” She mumbles, as they start walking.

As they walk, she reaches up to place her free hand on Mother’s extended belly. “If we only have two, what sword is the babe going to have?”

Mother rubs her left hand down the firm expanse. “Maybe he.. or she will forge their own. Or maybe he won’t need a sword. Maybe he will like the books better. And he will have his two big warrior sisters to protect him.”

“I don’t know if I want to be a warrior.” her sister grumbles from Mother’s other side, looking down at the ground.

She pokes her head out to look at her over Mother’s legs. “Then _I_ will have Mother’s sword! And the babe can have Father’s.” she announces, gleefully.

Yes. She thinks, with satisfaction; it’s settled. She will have the big, pretty sword with the lions and the rubies. She will protect Mother, Father, her sister and the babe and all the maidens and the knights who won’t be anywhere near as good as her with a sword. She will be the best warrior the world has ever known and her story will be told across Westeros for centuries to come, even more than Mother and Father’s.

Well, there’s the little problem that Mother and Father slayed an ice dragon, and that there are no more dragons left for her to fight.

But she will think of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it. The End. 
> 
> I kind of regretted this chapter as soon as I started writing it! The idea of having the Warrior POV being from one of their kids was really appealing to me until I realized that I don't really know how to write children, especially OC children! Which explains why this is too short compared to the others. I hope it's not too awful. 
> 
> I deliberately kept everything as vague as possible, for the same reasons I did in The Father. I don't want to commit to any particular scenario for this story, so this could be taking place on Tarth, at the Rock, in King's Landing, or wherever you want to envision Jaime and Brienne living their years post-war. I also didn't want to commit on any names for the children, or specific ages, or the gender of the third sibling; just give it a bit of a flavor of what they might be like and people can fill in the blanks as they wish.
> 
> But, YES, just as I have a pet theory that Maggy is connected to Bran (see Crone), I totally have a pet theory that Brienne with Oathkeeper (and possibly/probably Jaime) will be slaying the ice dragon, as the legend of Galladon of Morne (which is basically JB fanfiction) seems to suggest. So I thought I'd drop that in here. 
> 
> Thank you all for a wonderful JB Week, all the kudos and comments, and to Ginmo in particular for putting up with my need for approval and her advice (the idea of the kid dragging Oathkeeper was hers, and it kind of saved what was otherwise going to be a rather messy and disconnected chapter!). 
> 
> I'll probably be writing some more in the near future, but I'll be taking a break now, since I've kind of neglected real life to write this. But I have several plot bunnies prancing around in my head like Ned across Westeros, so hopefully they'll see the light of day sooner rather than later. 
> 
> 'Til then. *tips hat*


End file.
